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THE 



PROPHECY OF THE SANTON, 
1 



1 



AND OTHEIi POEMS. 

Cm 






' Things that were bom, when none but the Etill night 
And bis dumb candle, saw." 



^^ 



WORCESTER : 

EDWARD LIVERMORE 

BOSTON : 

PHILLIPS AND SAMPSON. 




MDCCCXLVll. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1847, 

By Edward Livermoke, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of 

Massachusetts. 



BOSTON : 

PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOLLES, 
DEVONSHIRE STREET. 



CONTENTS 



PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

PART FIRST 3 

PART SECOND 11 

PART THIRD ' . 29 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

THE GROVES WERE GOD's FIRST TEMPLES . • • 39 

DIRGE • . . 41 

SONG . . . .■ . . . . 45 

TIME ......... 47 

TO THE NIGHTINGALE ... ,51 

A PICTURE 54 



IV CONTENTS. 

MIDNIGHT 60 

A VESPER HYMN 77 

THE SINGING STREAM . . . . ■ . 79 

SONG TO DEATH 81 

SONG OF DEATH 86 

MEETING OF ART AN J RELIGION .... 91 

LITTLE NELL ...... 96 

FLOWERS 99 

STORM SONG 102 

GIVE 106 

ANGEL LOVE 109 

A RHYME OF LIFE 114 



THE 



PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 



" Wo ! wo ! wo ! to Granada ! exclaimed the voice ; its hour 
of desolation approaches. The ruins of Zahara will fall upon our 
heads ; my spirit tells me that the end of our empire is at hand. 
All shrunk back aghast and left the denouncer of wo standing 
alone in the centre of the hall. He was (say the Arabian histo- 
rians) one of those holy men termed Santons, who pass their lives 
in hermitages, in fasting, meditation, and prayer, until they attain 
to the purity of saints and the foresight of prophets." 

Irving, Conquest of Granada. 



PART FIRST. 



'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
And coming events cast their shadows before. 

Campbell. 



PART FIRST. 



Through the halls of the Alhambra, paced of 
old the Moorish king, 

And his brow was dark and troubled, as he planned 
some doubtful thing ; 

Through those mighty halls he wandered, silent, 
thoughtful and alone. 

While the gorgeous walls above him with the ori- 
ent splendor shone. 

But, nor fretted arch, nor pavement with its ara- 
besque of gold, 

Can enchant the haughty monarch while his 
throne the Spaniards hold ; 



4 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

Hold in fee the broad possessions, which eight 

hundred years ago 
Rhoderic the Goth surrendered, to the Moor, his 

conquering foe. 
And he looked forth from the casement to the 

beauteous scene below ; 
O'er the broad " enamelled vega " where a thou- 
sand fountains flow ; 
Like the garden of the prophet, stretching over 

hills and vales. 
Whose green banks were full of flowers, and 

whose groves, of nightingales ; 
Where the sun with love peculiar, seemed to 

drop his warmest ray ; 
Where the silver flashing Xenil wandered on its 

dreamy way ; 
Dallying with the perfumed flowers that upon its 

margin spring. 
Mirror-like, save when the swallow plunges there 

his shining wing — 
And he sees the wild sierra of Nevada proudly 

rise. 
Mingling its crystal summit, with the deep blue 
of the skies : 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 5 

All that 's beautiful in Nature, all that 's beautiful 

in Art, 
Lie before him and around him, in the vega, in 

the mart ; 
In the mart of old Granada, where a thousand 

temples stand 
In their stern and silent beauty, as if wrought by- 
magic hand : 
And a proud smile lit the features of the haughty 

monarch then ; 
And he hastened to the chamber, where convene 

his mighty men : 
" Spake I not as well became me, when I told 

proud Ferdinand, 
That the kings who rendered tribute, had departed 

from the land ? 
And of acts so weak and slavish, no remembrances 

. there are, 
For our mints coin now no metal, but for lance 

and scimetar ? 
Let the ruins of Zahara tell the churlish lords of 

Spain, 
What the Moor in arms has done, what the Moor 

may do again." 



b THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

Then rang forth the shout of triumph from those 

richly-moulded halls ; 
Through the street the sound swept onward, and 

arose beyond the walls. 
There was joy in the Alhambra, and the cup 

passed merrily, 
And the temples of Granada rung with hymns of 

victory ; 
But there came a voice of wailing — voice of 

wailing and of woe, 
As one sung a " requiescat " for the dead that lay 

below ; 
And it mingled with their shouting, drove away 

the merry laugh ; 
Cast a dark stain in the beaker of the rich red 

wine they quaff; 
From the street that voice of wailing, sounded to 

the palace gate ; 
Nearer, nearer now they hear it, moaning o'er 

Granada's fate. 
In the presence stood a Santon, with his flashing, 

twilight eye, 
And his white beard long and flowing — thus he 

dared to prophesy : 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 7 

" Ay de mi ! thy walls, Granada, shall be level 

with the dust, 
And thy sword of might and beauty shall grow 

weak with cankering rust : 
From the ruins of Zahara, the avenging fiends 

shall spring, 
And upon thy lofty places, darkest desolation 

bring ; 
Ay de mi ! their dreaded coming shall be like the 

tempest cloud, 
With the forked lightnings laden, and the thunders 

long and loud ; 
From afar off thou shalt know them, and shalt 

dread their coming sore ; 
Thou shalt mourn for thy Alhambra, and its foun- 
tains spouting gore. 
Ay de mi ! my spirit tells me that the hour is at 

hand 
When the proud Moor shall no longer be a 

dweller in the land ; 
Far off in the misty future, weave their web, the 

sisters three ; 
'T is a pall like one, Granada, that those sisters 

weave for thee ; 



8 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

In thy halls shall bask the lizard, and the noisome 

weed shall spring, 
'Mid the gold work of the pavement, in the 

palace of thy king ; 
Hushed shall be the sound of music, hushed shall 

be the merry laugh. 
And thy glory-budding sceptre, withered to a pil- 
grim staff; 
And thy mighty Alcazabar now may bid its 

thunders ring. 
But' there comes a louder thunder, and a bolt 

more maddening. 
Ay de mi ! I see destruction standing at thy open 

gate, 
And thy strong men weak and trembling, and 

their dear homes desolate." 

Speaking thus, the hoary Santon vanished from 

the royal hall ; 
Frantic through the streets he hastened, telling 

of Granada's fall ; 
Scornfully the proud king listened ; doomed was 

this prophetic one, 
Like the cursed of Apollo, in the streets of Ilion. 



THE 



PROPHECY OF THE SANTON 

PART SECOND. 



Now the storm begins to lower ; 

(Haste, the loom of Hell prepare,) 
Iron sleet of arrowy shower 

Hurtles through the darkened air. 

Gray. 



PART SECOND 



Night spread o'er Alhama 
Its heaviest pall, 

And the tramp of the sentry- 
Rung forth from the wall ; 

Save the tramp of the sentry 
No other sound 'rose ; 

For the sleeping Moor dreamed not 
The coming of foes. 

O'er the rugged Sierra, 

And through the dark vale, 

Came the hosts of the Spaniard 
With the dew on their mail ; 



12 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

To the dark frowning rampart 

In silence they haste ; 
Their weapons are ready, — 

The ladder is placed ; 
Upj up through the darkness — 

They stand on the wall ; 
There is red on the sabre — 

The sentinels fall ; 
They glide through the darkness — 

The citadel's won. 
For Ortega de Prado 

Is leading them on ; 
Now sounds the alarum, — 

'T is given too late, 
For the Christian has opened 

The iron-bound gate ; 
And De Leon advances 

With a well-chosen band, 
And the strife for the city 

Is fought hand to hand ; 
There is blood on the sabre, 

And blood on the lance ; 
The Moors are retreating, 

The Spaniards advance ; 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 13 

" Now smite for the prophet I " 

Is the Saracen cry ; 
" St. James and the Virgin ! " 

The Christians reply. 
Then fierce raged the battle 

Round the banner of Spain ; 
And through the loud tumult 

Rose the fierce yell of pain. 

Morn came o'er the mountain 

And chased night away, 
But the loud cry of battle 

Ceased not for the day. 
The sun from his zenith 

Looked down on the fight ; 
When he sunk to the westward, 

They struggled with might ; 
From the wall and the tower. 

Fell missiles like rain, 
And as harmless, they glanced from 

The bright mail of Spain. 
They rally — they thicken — 

Again they advance, 



14 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

And the sabre-blow answers 
The thrust of the lance. 

Now haste thee, King Muley, 

And gird on thy arms ; 
The Fates round Granada 

Are weaving their charms. 
O'er the steep Alpuxarras 

Came the bright smiling morn, 
And o'er the broad vega 

A horseman sped on ; 
Through the streets of Granada 

The iron hoofs ring ; 
He gained the Alhambra, 

And knelt to the king. 

'' There 's a wail in Alhama, 

A deep voice of woe, 
And the key of Granada 

Is held by the foe ; 
They came like the whirlwind — 

No warning was given ; 
And our iron-bound fortress 

Their sharp steel has riven." 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON* 15 

Then a frown passed the monarch ; 

Fire flashed from his eye ; 
He remembered the Santon — 

His ill-boding cry ; 
'' Now gird on mine armor, 

And bring me my shield ; 
To the sword of my fathers 

The Christian shall yield." 

Then he rode to the battle 

With banner and knight, 
And spurred his bold war-horse 

To the midst of the fight, 
Where the struggle was fiercest, 

And loudest the blast ; 
But the blows of the Christian 

Fell heavy and fast. 
Now learn thee, King Muley, 

Thy crescent must wane. 
When it meeteth in battle 

The red cross of Spain. 

With anger and hatred 
His dark bosom burned ; 



16 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

To the gates of Granada 
With speed he returned ; 

And as to his palace 

The monarch drew near, 

The curse of the Santon 
Still rung in his ear ; 

And from the Alhambra, 
Triumphal shouts ring, 

" Now praised be the prophet, 
Abdalla is king." 

Then away from the city- 
He wandered alone. 

For the son of the monarch 
Sat high on the throne. 

Now pray thee, Abdalla, 

For a prosperous reign ; 
For there 's strife in thy kingdom, 

There 's danger in Spain ; 
Call loud on thy prophet. 

And low bend the knee ; 
For both Moslem and Christian 

Have a weapon for thee ; 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 17 

Take heed, for the spirit 

Of strife is abroad, 
And the foemen who fight for 

Their king and their God. 

The king with his consort. 

The Cathohc queen, 
Looked o'er the rich vega 

All golden and green ; 
And he said, as he thought of 

The injuries done, 
" I '11 pick this pomegranate 

Of its seeds, one by one. 
Now, Moor of Granada, 

Look well to thy need, 
And list o'er the border 

For the tramp of the steed ; 
For the tramp of the war-horse, 

The clash of the lance ; 
For upon thy high places 

The foemen advance ; 
O'er the ramparts of Loxa 

Floats the banner of Spain, 
2 



18 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

And the sword of Alatar 

Is broken in twain ; 
The banks of the Xenil 

Are crimson with blood, 
And the corse of the Moslem 

Floats deep in its flood. 

Ho ! the words of the Santon 

Were not written on sand ; 
"The Saracen empire 

Shall pass from the land ; " 
But deep in the Future 

With a pencil of light, 
Each morning recalls them. 

They are with thee by night. 

Thou, Boabdil Zogoybi, 

The name was well given, 
Shalt see the last Moor 

From his garden home driven : 
Thy glorious empire 

Is losing its power ; 
'T is passing, 'tis passing 

Each day and each hour ; 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 19 

Thy sceptre is dimmed 

By the blood of the Moor ; 
The dark web is weaving, 

The destiny sure; 
One after another 

Thy strong castles fall, 
For the lombard is breathing 

Its blast on the wall. 

Zahara has yielded — 

'T was whispered to thee, 
"A type of Granada 

Zahara shall be ! " 

And now on Malaga, 

Thy gate of the sea, 
The mightiest ally 

Remaining to thee, 
The foe is advancing 

With spearman and knight ; 
And their steeds are impatient 

To join in the fight. 

There was crashing of armor, 
And smiting of sword. 



20 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

And blood on the vega 

Was ruthlessly poured ; 
Loud rose o'er the tumult 

The Saracen cry : 
" El Zagal ! " they shouted ; 

The lombards reply. 
Through long days of struggle 

Moved equal the fight ; 
But the God of the Christian 

Looked forth in his might. 

The struggle is ended, 

The battle is done, 
And the hold of Malaga 

Is lost and is won. 

Now shield thee, Granada, 

The Fates urge the loom ; 
The last threads are weaving 

In the web of thy doom ; 
And look thee, Boabdil, 

Thy sabre be strong ; 
Call loud on the prophet, 

Call loudly and long ; 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 21 

And watchers like Argus 

Send forth on the wall, 
And light up the mountains 

When night shadows fall ; 
That thou be not surprised 

When the Christian draws near, 
And the vega is lit by 

The sheen of his spear. 

By Sierra Nevada 

A murmur arose. 
Like the whisper of thousands ; 

Now louder it grows ; 
And the old Moorish city 

Is filled with alarms ; 
" The Christian ! the Christian I " 

They shouted — " to arms I " 
They see by the Xenil 

A flash of red light ; 
And a cloud looms above it, 

A cloud like the night ; 
On, on o'er the vega, 

Both the cloud and the glare, 



22 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

Yet they hear not the boom of 
The loud cannon there. 

Those clouds were commissioned 

By the Christian of Spain, 
To drop on the harvest 

Their blistering rain ; 
From the wall of Granada 

To the Sierra's brow, 
That garden of beauty 

Is desolate now ; 
And the Xenil that gleamed in 

Its flowery track, 
Like the gloomy Cocytus, 

Flows mournful and black ; 
Gone the herb on its margin 

That made the wave green, 
And banks of dark ashes 

It murmurs between. 

Now in the Alhambra, 
What counsels the Moor ? 

Are his barns filled with plenty, 
Do his garners run o'er ? 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 23 

There 's no plant on the vega 

That savors of life ; 
His store-house must measure 

The length of the strife ; 
For the city of fountains 

Now standeth alone ; 
Her allies have fallen, 

Her power has flown. 

Throng the hosts of the Christian 

With resolute mien ; 
Comes the Catholic king, 

With his Catholic queen. 

The battle raged fiercely, 

While months intervene ; 
With the blood of the slaughtered, 

The vega grew green. 

There is joy in Granada — • 

For in the still night, 
Through the camp of the foe 

Rushed the flames in their might. 



24 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

Joy in the Alhambra — 
What counsels the Moor ? 

Now praised be Alia ! 
Our safety is sure. 

Days passed, and the battle 

Raged fiercely again, 
For the fire god troubled 

The army of Spain. 

There is grief in Granada — 

The triumph has flown ; 
From the flames of the camp 

Rose a phoenix of stone. 
Grief in the Alhambra — 

What counsels the Moor ? 
" Zahara has typed it, 

Thy empire is o'er ! " 

'T was the voice of the Santon 
All withered and gray. 

That answered thus boldly, 
Then hastened away. 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 25 

Well, well the Fates labored, 

And fast sped the loom ; 
They have finished, Granada, 

The web of thy doom. 



THE 

PROPHECY OF THE SANTON 
PART THIRD. 



Peace ! the charm 's wound up. 

Shakspeaee. 



PART THIRD 



'T WAS morn. The sun with rosy flame 
Played on Nevada, when there came 
From the Alhambra's royal gate 
A mournful band ; among them sate 
Upon his war-horse silently, 
Boabdel el Zogoybi ; he, 
Who whilom was Granada's king ; 
To-day there is no meaner thing. 

Heart-broken and disconsolate, 
They moved towards the postern gate. 
That none might see the monarch's shame, 
Or break the silence with his name. 



30 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

The steed which in his day of might 
Had snuffed afar the coming fight, 
With restless hoof had pawed the ground, 
And neighed to hear the trumpet sound. 
Now moved as spiritless and tame, 
As if he felt his master's shame. 

Along the Xenil's banks they passed ; 
No lingering look they backward cast ; 
But to the Alpuxarras moved 
In silence which their anguish proved ; 
Amid the mountain passes, on. 
Until the last steep crag is won. 
Which overlooks the fertile plain, 
The fairest garden land of Spain ; 
Then turned the king to gaze once more 
Upon his kingdom, his no more. 
He sees the Christian banner, hears 
The cannon's thunder ; then the tears 
Had drowned the words his lips would speak. 
Gushed freely o'er his swarthy cheek ; 
And from that mountain, stern and high. 
The Moor breathed out his last, long sigh. 

" Farewell, Granada, fare thee well — 
This bleeding heart alone can tell 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 31 

The depth of thy proud monarch's grief: 

Imperial kingdom ! as the leaf 

In autumn falleth, or the flower 

Is withered, thou art fallen ; thy power, 

Thy glory and thy high command, 

Have passed forever from the land. 

" Ah, woe is me ! I thought when thou 
Before the Christian lance should'st bow, 
To see thy temples in the dust ; 
Thy beauty grimmed with mould and rust ; 
Thy proud Alhambra, whose broad wings 
Have brooded o'er a race of kings. 
Bow to the fate's untold decrees. 
Crushed by the weight of centuries ; 
Thine Alcazabar hushed ; thy wall 
So weak the wind should make it fall ; 
But 't is not thus I look on thee, 
Granada ; in thy walls I see. 
From out the vega evergreen, 
A city of the stateliest mien 
Rise up in glorious majesty, 
Like Venice rising from the sea, 
With sunlit towers dripping wet ; 
For on each spire and minaret 



32 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

The sun is dallying the while. 

And leaves with them his brightest smile. 

I see th' Alhambra's towers rise 

In bold relief upon the skies ; 

The Alcazabar yet is strong ; 

Its thunders echo loud and long ; 

Those mighty walls shall never molt, 

Nor fear the Lombards' heavy bolt. 

'T is thus, thy once proud monarch's eye ' 

Beholds thee pictured on the sky. 

" Zogoybi was the name they gave 
To me ; — 't was well, or else the grave 
Had spared me this last, bitter pang ; 
Had closed upon me e'er fate rang 
This mournful passing-bell for thee : 
Alas, why was I called to be. 
Predestined, thy destroyer ; I 
Who would have bled to serve thee ; why ? 

*' Woe ! woe ! my people, where are they ? 
Passed in their strength and pride away ; 
Dark rolls the Gaudelete and 
The Xenil, for their beds of sand 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 33 

Are cumbered by the Moorish dead ; 
There, there in peace they rest the head ; 
And there the circling eddies meet, 
And wrap them Hke a winding sheet. 
And they should bless the God who gave 
To them the fortune of a grave 
Within the land they loved so well ; 
For which they fought, and fighting, fell. 
Brave hearts ! most peaceful be your rest ; 
Roll lightly o'er the sleeper's breast. 
Ye waves ! while I, an exile, go 
To hide my shame in weeds of woe. 

" Farewell, Granada, fare thee well — 
*T is hard to go ; there is a spell 
Binds me to thee as with a chain 
Of steel ; it must be rent in twain ; 
I go — and when this heart shall break. 
This bleeding heart, then they shall take 
My bones and bear them silently, 
And lay them down to sleep with thee, 
Beneath those blue and golden skies. 
Where blooms the prophet's Paradise." 
3 



34 THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 

Then calmlyj yesterday's proud king 
Moved on, a poor, heart-broken thing. 

Centuries have rolled in silence down the ringing 
aisles of Time, 

And 'tis finished as the Santon read of old the 
mystic rhyme. 

Still the Xenil and the Darro, 'mid luxurious gar- 
dens flow. 

And Nevada hfts its summit, crowned with ever- 
lasting snow ; 

Still the vega blooms with beauty in its own en- 
chanted vale ; 

In the orange groves, as sweetly sings the pen- 
sive nightingale ; 

But the grand old Moorish city, in its beauty lives 
no more ; 

It has wandered like its builders, to some far off", 
brighter shore ; 

The Alhambra stands in ruins, like a thing de- 
parted — dead ; 

And across its golden fret-work, now the spider 
spins his thread ; 



THE PROPHECY OF THE SANTON. 35 

And the light Moresco arches in their crumbling 

ruins lie, 
And the owl comes forth at twilight, with his 

mournful, boding cry ; 
Fair in ruins ; and the pilgrim weeping, leans 

upon his staff, 
For he reads its former splendor in that frowning 

cenotaph. 
Art, though long, is not immortal ; it too hastens 

to decay ; 
Nature with her royal sceptre, claims at last im- 
perial sway ; 
And the moss leaves, and the lichens, up those 

columned temples climb, 
Marking out past centuries, like wrinkles on the 

brow of Time. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



"THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST 
TEMPLES." 



" The groves were God's first temples ; '* 

Beneath whose spreading shade 
The sparkling streamlet wandered. 

And sighing breezes played ; 
Men joined in sweet communion, 

Assembled meekly there, 
And from the soul's rich fountain 

Poured forth their simple prayer. 

No pillared dome reechoed 

The voices of the free ; 
No melting harp awakened 

Its studied minstrelsy ; 



40 THE GROVES WERE GOd's FIRST TEMPLES. 

The winds joined in their anthem, 

And birds of fairest hue ; 
And dancing in the sunHght, 

The bubbling stream sang too. 

The proud oak spread its branches 

To shade the happy band, 
As underneath they gathered, 

With hearts joined hand in hand ; 
And bowed amid bright flowers 

Which clustered thickly there ; 
From them, they learned to worship 

In silent, thoughtful prayer. 

This was their sacred Minster, 

Their Home of holy thought, 
Where trusting they assembled. 

And learned the truths it taught ; 
And with a sacred pleasure. 

Those leafy aisles they trod. 
And bowed before its altar — 

The shrine of Nature's God. 



DIRGE. 



I. 

" Whom the gods love, die young," 
An olden prophet sung ; 
Around them first is flung 

The spell of dreamless slumber ; 
But though the golden bowl 
Be broken amid the roll 
Of waters, yet the soul 

Ne'er stills its glorious number. 

II. 

Ah, no ; a thing so high 
Can never, never die ; 
It only seeks the sky, 

From whence at first 't was borrowed 



42 DIRGE. 

Death bids us lowly bow ; 
He chills the life-warm brow ; 
And men must sorrow now, 

As they have ever sorrowed. 

III. 

For 't is a time to weep, 

When Death doth 'mong us creep, 

And lay in breathless sleep 

The dust we loved, we cherished ; 
Ye cannot steel the heart. 
To bid it tearless part 
From friends ; there is no art 

To smile when love hath perished. 

IV. 

Then let us mourn to-night ; 
For in its steady flight 
A star is lost from sight ; 

Gone, gone we see not whither ; 
One whom we loved is not ; 
The willow marks the spot ; 
But 't is the common lot 

To bud, and bloom, and wither. 



DIRGE. 43 

V. 

Weep, mother, silently ; 
Weep, father, sisters ; ye, 
From th' old familiar tree, 

Have lost one of its members ; 
A mist is on your path ; 
Weep, weep, but not in wrath, 
That on your once warm hearth. 

Lie cold the scattered embers. 

VI. 

Grim Death hath rent in twain. 

The strongly-linked chain 

Which bound your hearts — in vain ; 

The circle now is broken ; 
Yet o'er the vacant spot. 
Your parted ring close not ; 
He lingers yet in thought. 

Conceived, yet unspoken. 

vn. 

And in the empty chair. 
In every dear spot where 
In life he lingered, there 

The free soul doth inherit : 



44 DIRGE. 

Then do not weep for aye, 
That dust has passed away ; 
Such only love the clay ; 

They should have loved the spu'it. 

VIII. 

O ye shall often hear 
That gentle spirit near. 
With whispers soft and clear. 

Reproaching him that weepeth; 
Then dry the weeping eye ; 
Hush, hush the mournful sigh ; 
For the soul is lingering nigh, 

'T is but the dust that sleepeth. 



SONG. 



'T IS midnight, yet I think of thee, 

Thou loved one far away ; 
And spirits whisper me the dreams 

That round thy slumbers play : 
I see them enter at the door — 

Bright starry things they be, 
That come thus in the morning watch 

To bid me think of thee. 

The sky is all above me and 

The world is all before ; 
And yet it were no welcome thought, 

Could I never see thee more ; 



46 SONG. 

For I have gazed into thine eye, 

All love, all purity, 
Until my heart grew strong and brave — 

And still I '11 think of thee. 

And when among the hills I roam, 

Or 'neath the green old trees, 
I *11 hear thee singing in the stream, 

Or whispering in the breeze ; 
I '11 see thee in each bright blue star 

That sails the upper sea ; 
And when the morn has made them pale. 

Still, still I '11 think of thee. 

For O, I reck not of the night 

When thy sweet form is near ; 
And morning with its gush of light 

Ne'er bids thee disappear ; 
I '11 watch until mine eye grows dim. 

And sleep comes over me ; 
And when in slumber's bosom rocked, 

Then, then I'll dream of thee. 




TIME 



Over the mountains 
And over the lea, 
Over the fountains 
And over the sea, 
Passeth majestic the World-mover, Time, 
Murmuring softly his wild, mystic rhyme. 

Glides o'er Enara, 

Still icy in June ; 
Over Sahara, 

Where breathes the simoon ; 
And his broad wings as he moves o'er the lands. 
Hum their low lay like the running of sands. 



I 



48 TIME. 

Over the sighing, 

The heart-broken slave ; 
Over the dying, 

And over the grave : 
Over the dark eye, and over the blue, 
Bears off the old year, and brings on the new. 

Singeth of treasures 

And penury's strain ; 
Singeth of pleasures, 
And singeth of pain ; 
Farther than comet whirls off from the sun, 
Echoes the song of that weariless one. 

Pendulums swinging 

Forth measure his flight. 
Successively bringing 
The darkness and light ; 
Move like the shuttle, forth, back through the 

loom : 
Weaving the bride dress, and shroud for the 
tomb. 



TIME. 

Never he leaveth 

The task for a day ; 
Busily cleaveth 

To his orbit alway ; 
On in his chariot drawn by the hours, 
O'er the ice mountain and valley of flowers. 

Marketh with wrinkles 

The brow of the maid ; 
With silver hair sprinkles 
The raven dark braid ; 
Crumbleth the temple and battle-proof towers : 
They measure ages as the glass measures hours. 

Bright constellations 

Whirl onward through space ; 
Struggle the nations 

In the Parliament place ; 
Men bear their burdens where fortune has led, 
Still in his passage Time works overhead. 

Comes the red morning. 
And flies the dark night, 

Flies the red morning, 

And comes the dark night. 
4 



49 



50 TIME. 

Changing for aye, is the season of life, 
Moveth Time onward, unheeding the strife. 

Age may not hold him 
With tottering pace ; 
Shroud may not fold him. 
Within its embrace ; 
Over creation, unwearied he glides, 
Weird and wild like the onsweep of tides. 

Comes the past never. 

This is his strain, 
Forever and ever. 
Never again : 
Strong is the gateway, the Warder is stern. 
Ages may pass, not a moment return. 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 



Sing to me, Nightingale — 

Tune thy clear song ; 
Let the rich melody 

Echo along ; 
Free as the rivulet 

In its swift flight, 
Furl up thy pinion and 

Sing to the night. 

Swell the strain, Nightingale 

Sing to the star 
Lit in the firmament 

Westward afar ; 



52 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 

'T is the pale Hesperus, 

Empress of even ; 
See how she smiles from her 

Window in Heaven. 

Sing to the myriads 

Journeying high, 
Bearing their crystal lamps 

Through the clear sky : 
Think'st thou they tongueless are, 

Bird of the night ? 
Think'st thou they warble not 

In their swift flight ? 

Ay ! in their silentness. 

Sing they a strain, 
Echoing heavenward 

Never in vain ; 
Sweet as the zephyr's breath 

Rocked in the pine, 
Sweet is their music, bird, 
Sweeter than thine. 

Thou, thy sweet music didst 
Learn of that band ; 



TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 53 

Sing'st it in numbers which 

We understand ; 
Still catch their thoughtful strain. 

Simple and free ; 
Would I might evermore 

Listen to thee. 



A PICTURE. 



See where yon rustic peasant holds the plough, 
With streams of toil down dropping from his brow ; 
Bearing the heat and burden of the day, 
For seed and harvest time, prepares the way ; 
Ne'er discontented, never does repine, 
But patient strives behind his patient kine. 

Hush ! Phoebus' car drives slowly down the 

west ; 
The birds and bees fly homeward to their rest ; 
The still air vibrates to the vesper stroke — 
He frees the oxen from their heavy yoke ; 
And they, well pleased to leave the stubborn 

plough. 
Roam off together by the hillock's brow. 



A PICTURE. 55 

And from the limpid pool their thirst assuage, 
And graze upon the tender pasturage. 
And he, the unkempt rustic, takes his way 
Across the rough glebe, pleased to rest as they. 
With look as happy as in childhood's prime, 
His merry heart beats many a Christmas chime ; 
Stops on the broken bridge and looks below 
Where silently the deep, clear waters flow ; 
And laughs immoderately, with honest grace. 
To see reflected there his soiled face ; 
A moment, and his dress is laid aside ; 
A plunge, and he is struggling with the tide ; 
Such plashing, spattering he makes thereby, 
'T were woe to lord, or lady, passing nigh ; 
Then rosy as the morn, as healthy too, 
He rises from the wave once more to view ; 
Still laughs incessantly, why, scarce can tell. 
At that strange face, he thought he knew so well. 
Then gaily hastens onward. Why so fast ? 
Is 't that the day of toil is done at last ? 
Is it that he has groaned the livelong day. 
And now may sleep the idle night away ? 
No ; he was happy following the plough ; 



56 A PICTURE. 

For every rood, his ploughshare turned, of loam, 
He knew it was a rood the nearer home. 
Ah, there 's the secret ; see yon simple cot ; 
Content dwells there, though many know it not ; 
'T is good as riches, some say better too, 
Look for thyself, and judge if they say true. 
See there the plat with flowers sprinkled o'er ; 
The trellised vine runs riot by the door ; 
Mosses and lichens spin their warp and woof, 
And lay a velvet covering on the roof; 
An elm and sycamore spread out their arms 
Like giant warders to protect from harms ; 
See on one side, the crazy well-curb there, 
With empty bucket swinging high in air; 
Beside the door, the old dog Jowler lies. 
Pretending sleep with only half-closed eyes ; 
Two little imps are rolling on the grass, 
A bright-eyed lad and laughing little lass ; 
And naught of hate or envy may be found 
Upon that cheerful, consecrated ground. 

See, Jowler growls, and pricks his shaggy ears, 
Then bounds away ; a gentle form appears ; 



A PICTURE. 57 

A voice is heard would make the heart rejoice ; 

Melodious, for it is a mother's voice, 

Calling her merry younglings tenderly ; 

They hear, and scamper woodward, light and free ; 

The happy ploughman hears, and crouches in the 

fern. 
And scares them both, then kisses each in turn. 
The mother, fearing they might go astray. 
Steps from the cot and meets them on the way ; 
And has her welcome kiss among the rest. 
As closely to his honest heart is prest ; 
And so with merry chat they reach the cot, 
And every thought is joy, all care forgot. 
Night comes ; the rushlight sheds its glare abroad ; 
They sit down happy at the simple board ; 
And from each heart a blessing rare is given, 
Unsaid, but borne on angel wings to Heaven. 
And should a tear swell in that mother's eye, 
'T is not for grief, but for prosperity. 

That simple hind was happy in the love 
Of those he prized all earthly things above ; 
Was happy, for he saw no good in grief; 
It could not plant, or change the blasted leaf; 



58 A PICTURE. 

So when his share broke on the stubborn stone, 
He laughed to think he 'd get a better one. 
He could not call the planets by their names, 
Nor knew what caused the sun's undying flames ; 
He only knew, enough for him to know, 
It bleached his hay, and made his bread-corn 

grow. 
He was not learned in the schoolmen's lore ; 
Had never read the volumes written o'er 
To prove some creed, or venture to reveal 
What the Almighty Master would conceal ; 
Perchance he had no creed — and was alway 
As happy, even on the Seventh Day. 
Shall that condemn the one whose heart springs 

well 
With golden thoughts, which words could never 

tell? 
Which rise above, as sure as priest-prayers climb, 
Not only at the morn and vesper chime ; 
Such prayers as would the priest-book desolate. 
Though all the day are crowding Heaven's gate. 
Such godlike ones see angels in their dreams ; 
And spirits wandering by Elysian streams ; 
And fairies sit among them, full of mirth, 
And crickets chirp their glee-song on the hearth ; 



A PICTURE. 59 

And shadows from the rush-hght deck the wall, 

As well as in the proud manorial hall. 

Shall not the Vineyard Master say, "well done," 

With a peculiar grace, to such an one, 

When dust to dust, and worlds to naught are 

given, 
And men meet in the Judgment Hall of Heaven ? 
I tell ye, angels shall rejoice and sing, 
To see such rise to bliss on golden wing ; 
Shall rank them with the broken heart, whom 

grief 
Hath cherished j to whom years brought no relief. 



MIDNIGHT. 



Ev'n silent night proclaims my soul immortal: 
Ev'n silent night proclaims eternal day. 
For human weal heav'n husbands all events, 
Dull sleep instructs, nor sport vain dreams in vain. 

Young. 



Half the world is hushed in slumber, night has 

reached her solemn noon, 
And the dark and foggy meadows wait the coming 

of the moon ; 

Winds are sighing in the savins with a deep and 
mournful sound. 

And the golden stars of Heaven drop their dewy- 
tears around. 



MIDNIGHT. 61 

And the sleepless tide is lying calmly in the deep 

lagoon ; 
It is waiting for its hour — for the coming of the 

moon. 

Rooks are flying hither, thither, sending forth ill- 
i boding cries, 

And the owl is gazing eastward with his large and 
1 lustrous eyes. 

Nightingales are silent, thinking which of all their 

melodies 
Were the sweetest one to welcome, when she 
' looketh o'er the seas. 

\ 

They are all with patience waiting for the night to 

wear away, 
For the mingling of the darkness with the moon's 

enchanting ray. 

And like them I too will linger on my watch-tower 

by the sea. 
Waiting in the solemn midnight, waiting lone and 

patiently ; 



62 MIDNIGHT. 

Till the murmur of the waters on the low and peb- 
bly shore, 

Tell the coming of the moonbeams, through the 
world's broad eastern door. 

For my thoughts press thick and heavy, and I fain 

would be alone ; 
Would commune awhile with Nature, till this 

heaviness hath flown ; 

Here I would in fancy wander through the battle- 
field of life, 

Mark the human hearts contending in the world's 
unequal strife. 

Would gaze downward to the centre, whence the 

streams of healing roll. 
And drink deeply from its fountain, med'cines for 

the fainting soul. 

Men are struggling with the darkness, tangled in 

the mists of night ; 
Waiting, like the scenes around me, for the coming 

^on of light. 



MIDNIGHT. 63 

Yet 'tis burning bright above them, and they will 

not see its ray ; 
Bowed to earthj they still are plodding in the 

beaten, erring way. 

Bowed to earth, why do they see not the broad 

sun's resplendent beams, 
Emblemed by a thousand emblems, mirrored in a 

thousand streams ? 

Vain are many burning sunlights, angels' voices 

speak in vain, 
If the soul's eye be not opened, if its ear mark not 

the strain ; 

Like the flock without a shepherd turn they from 
the pleasant fold. 

Bartering Nature's priceless birthright for a penny- 
worth of gold. 

Gone the strength and the endeavor, gone the rea- 
son, lowly prized ; 

Vainly beats the heart of Nature when her limbs, 
are paralyzed ; 



64 MIDNIGHT. 

There is need of a physician to bind up the broken 
age, 

To relieve the weary spirit, weary of its pilgrim- 
age. 

Then the True Reformer cometh, armed with 

love and holy zeal, 
With a soul as broad and beauteous as the truths it 

doth reveal. 

Bom perchance in some low cottage, named not 

on the princely roll, 
Yet with higher arms emblazoned — the Nobility 

of Soul ! 

Cometh like some ancient prophet, with a mission 

to fulfil ; 
To renew the broken charter granted on the Holy 

Hill ; 

Not on gold or marble tablets marking with the 

graver's pen. 
But with love's sweet Iris-pencil, on the selfish 

hearts of men. 



MIDNIGHT. 65 

Comes to waken life's true spirit, whose broad 

wings have long been furled — 
To unfold the Sphynx-enigma, solve the problem 

of the world ; 

Comes the great soul meek and lowly, with a bosora 

filled with ruth. 
Mounts the world's observatory, takes the tc.escope 

of Truth. 

Gazes long and gazes deeply on the fold of human 

hearts ; 
Sees the herd of spirits standing idle in the crowded 

marts : 

Draws the world as with a magnet to the compass 
of his thought. 

As from some high hill the traveller sees the land- 
scape 'neath him wrought. 

And he reads its sad condition with a deep pro- 
phetic eye ; 

But his heart is nothing daunted — he will yet strive 
manfully 

5 



66 MIDNIGHT. 

To consume the golden idols molten in some hea- 
then name, 

Bid religion's fane rise upward like a phoenix from 
the flame. 

Then he mingles with the people gathered in fa- 
natic strife, 

And unfolds them holy lessons in the market-place 
of hfe ; 

Lessons not of distant ages, improvised with cun- 
ning art. 

But from volumes of the present, written on the 
grateful heart. 

And he rends the gaudy garments wrought with 

tinselry uncouth, 
Which enfold Religion's Temple, and conceal her 

simple truth ; 

Strives to raise the sacred altar shunned and hast- 
ening to decay. 

For men think to build them Babels, and escape 
another way 



MIDNIGHT. . 67 

But his toil is long and lonely; wronged, yet 

seeking no redress, 
Stands alone like John the Baptist praying in the 

wilderness ; 

And they scorn him at the altar, smite upon his 

tearful cheek, 
Doubting if a heaven-sent prophet could so humble 

be, and meek. 

Wag their tongues in bitter mocking, murmur like 

the angry seas, 
"Art thou wiser than our fathers ? words they never 

taught like these." 

But he turns him from their mocking, and forgives 

their ribaldry ; 
For he thinks of Him who sorrowed lowly in 

Gethsemane. 

Unsubdued, all day he toileth, bowed by none of 

human fears. 
But at night, alone, in secret, from his eyes drop 

bloody tears: 



68 MIDNIGHT. 

Thus he lives and thus he labors, struggling with 

life's ocean wave ; 
And for him there is no slumber till he reach the 

silent grave. 

Like the old and stricken year, he goeth down the 

vale of Time ; 
And the winds of Life's sad winter ring his deep 

funereal chime ; 

Lowly on the bier he lieth, borne along the crowded 

street. 
And men gaze on him with wonder that his slumber 

is so sweet. 

Then they think how calm and meekly sorrow's 

heavy load he bore ; 
Then they do no more revile him, for his great 

heart beats no more ; 

And from pity love is kindled ; love unknown, un- 

felt till now. 
For they cannot mingle hatred with the death-dew 

on his brow. 



MIDNIGHT. 69 

And the words he taught while living seem more 

holy and sublime ; 
Rise they up like dreams commissioned from some 

higher, holier clime ; 

Or like strains of earnest music, heard a little while 
ago, 

Growing softer in the distance, sweeter, as the mo- 
ments grow. 

And the school-boy in his ramble, turns from that 

lone grave aside. 
Fearing to disturb the Master whom in life the 

world denied ; 

O'er his head they build up temples, telling to the 

passer-by 
Where the ashes of the prophet, in their silent 

slumber lie. 

But the waves begin to whisper, murmuring in the 

deep lagoon, 
And the eastern gates are opened for the coming 

of the moon. 



70 MIDNIGHT. 

Like an ocean-queen she cometh from the cham- 
bers of the deep, 

And the Httle waves throng round her, hfting up 
their heads from sleep. 

Like a nation's shout of gladness, when its sove- 
reign draweth nigh, 

Sound those lifting waves their welcomes, welcomes 
poured exultingly : 

From afar I hear their murmur borne in whispers 

toward the land, 
Growin gdeeper, deeper — dashing in fiill chorus 

on the strand. 

Rises like some pitying spirit o'er the dark and 

troubled world ; 
Fed from light's great fountain, burning, when the 

day's bright wings are furl'd ; 

Moon ! thou typest well my vision — faithful image 

of the sun ! 
Truth shall still in nature linger when its source is 

seen by none. 



MIDNIGHT. 7 1 

Clouds are gathered dark and heavy in the far-off 

Orient, 
Black'ning with their giant shadows all the starry 

firmament. 

O ! I see them stretching upward, through the 

midnight calm and bold, 
Like some great imperial city builded in the days 

of old. 

Ruined minsters, broken arches, cast their black 

and sullen shade. 
And the eye is weary, toiling down the deep'ning 

colonnade ; 

Through the stained cathedral windows lamps are 

streaming clear and bright. 
And I hear the deep bells calling to the spirits of 

the night. 

And I see those lamps grow brighter, burning with 

a purer fire ; 
See the robed priest in the chancel, hear the 

music of the choir : 



72 MIDNIGHT 

Solemn music ; deep and awful ; more than art can 

understand ; 
Like the thunders of Mount Sinai, — like the 

writing on the sand. 

There I see them thronged together, all those works 

I longed to see ; 
All my childhood's study gathered from the page 

of history ; 

Stands the mighty Coliseum limned in many a 

poet's rhyme, 
And the Pyramids of Egypt, older than recorded 

time. 

Structures of the middle ages, Notre-Dame, Co- 
logne, Milan ; 

Which like little children cluster round their mother 
Vatican. 

Giant-like, another figure rises in that world of 

art, 
Virgin of celestial beauty, bearing yet a lion's 

heart. 



MIDNIGHT. 73 

'T is the Sphynx of ancient fable, Sphynx which 

moderns realize, 
Gazing sorrowfully upward with her deep and 

earnest eyes ; 

And amid those olden structures climbs the moon 

with steady pace, 
Burning brightly on the altar, sadly o'er the charnel- 

place. 

Lingering in her silent passage, 'neath the deep 

and broken arch. 
Struggling with some mighty column, — for they 

fain would stay her march ; 

Comes a siroc from the desert breathing murk and 

poisoned air. 
And its noisome mists are thronging round her 

pathway everywhere. 

But she comes still bravely upward, fears not, from 

no danger shrinks ; 
Struggles with the giant monster, with the Hon of 

the Sphynx. 



74 MIDNIGHT. 

Fought the battle — she has won it ! falls the van- 
quished heavily ; 

Won it, for she saw the virgin o'er her gazing 
earnestly. 

Upward like some great evangel drawn by chains 
of golden hnks, 

Brighter for her toiling, mounts she from her strug- 
gle with the Sphynx ; 

And those temples old have vanished, from their 

deep foundations hurled ; 
Answered is the great enigma — solved the riddle 

of the world ! 

Comes a flood of silver moonlight over meadow, 

hill and vale. 
Like the opening of Heaven, to repeat its glorious 

tale ; 

To the rooted rock she calleth, and it echoes back 
her call. 

Speaking with the voice of Nature from her truth- 
emblazoned hall. 



MIDNIGHT. 75 

Plain and mountain^ hill and valley, chant their 

strains of sweet accord, 
Like the Midnight Mass of millions, lifting up their 

hearts to God : 

From her dream of silent slumber wakes the night- 
ingale her song, 

And the waters swell their chorus as the tide-wave 
sweeps along. 

Now I '11 hasten to my slumber, for my soul its task 

has done, 
Lest morn find me here a watcher, when the hour 

of sleep is gone. 

I have learned a solemn lesson from the dark clouds 

and the moon, 
From th' murmur of the waters sailing up the 

broad lagoon. 

Bitter foes will arm against thee, thousand hands 

take up the spear ; 
But thy truth shall burn far brighter when, subdued, 

they disappear. 



76 MIDNIGHT. 

In the silent, lone hour watching, came this writing 

on the sky ; 
Thus I read the magic riddle, claiming not to 

prophesy. 



VESPER. 



Ave Purissima ! 

Ave Sanctissima ! 
Ave Maria ! our spirits are kneeling ; 

List to our evening prayer, 

While through the twilight air, 
Solemnly, sweetly, thy vesper is stealing. 

Ave ! the evening star 

Burns in the sky afar ; 
Sweet is its smile from the bright verge of even ; 

So lift our thoughts to thee, 

Angel of purity ! 
Plead for us, plead for us, Mother in Heaven. 



78 VESPER. 

Ave ! the slumbering 

Night wind is whispering 
In its soft dreams, and the waters are sleeping ; 

List, while we kneel to thee ; 

Keep us from danger free ; 
Ora pro nohisj thou knowest our weeping. 



Balm of the bleeding soul ! 

Bid thy pure waters roll, 
Flooding with joy the heart burdened with sorrow ; 

Calm on the sighing breast. 

Let thy sweet blessing rest ; 
Ave Purissima ! guard till the morrow. 



THE SINGING STREAM. 



Amid the grass grown hillocks 
Where rest the silent dead, 

A singing stream meanders 
Along its rocky bed ; 

And as with soothing murmur 
It softly glides along, 

The solemn groves reecho, 
Its happy, happy song. 

I love that little wanderer. 
And others love it too ; 

For it hath taught a lesson 
So holy and so true ; 



80 THE SINGING STREAM. 

I learned from its bright billows 
Which ever onward roll, 

That 't is by looking forward 
We reach the promised goal. 

I love the flowers that cluster 

Upon its grassy brink ; 
I love the gentle warblers 

That from its fountain drink ; 

The " old stump" crowned with ivy 

I ever love to see ; 
There is a recollection 

That makes it dear to me. 

Still let its course be onward — 
That limpid Stream of Song 

And marked its course by flowers, 
As it slowly winds along ; 

Mine, be the heartfelt pleasure 
To hear its bubbling moan, 

For when I linger near it, 
I feel not all alone. 



SONG TO DEATH. 



I. 

Death, Death, why dost thou creep 

So stealthily, to reap 

The harvest which we weep 

With drops of deepest sorrow ? 
And when our hearts would sup 
On future joys, and th' cup 
We take, thou closest up 

The casement of to-morrow. 
6 



82 SONG TO DEATH. 



11. 

The world is wide, they say, 
Far reaching as the day, 
Or as the breezes play ; 

But Life, ah Life is narrow ; 
For ere the child of time 
Has reached where he would climb. 
Or heard Life's vesper chime, 

He feels thy chilling arrow. 



m. 

Thy heavy knock we hear ; 
Thy dread approach we fear ; 
Yet, though it cost a tear. 

We may no longer dally ; 
For thou art mighty, thou 
Canst make the strongest bow ; 
Canst chill the warmest brow. 

Dark Dweller of the valley. 



SONG TO DEATH. 83 



IV. 



Thou lovest the silent tear ; 
Thou lovest the ladened bier ; 
Thou lovest to see men rear 

The gray stone speaking sorrow ; 
Thou hatest all things drest 
In joy ; thou summonest 
The soul to that long rest 

Fiom which earth has no morrow. 



The laborer leaves his plough ; 
Thou chill'st the reaper's brow ; 
There is no harvest now, 

But thine, from earth to sever 
For in the youth and age 
Of Life's sweet pilgrimage, 
Thou turnest th' unwritten page, 

Thou turnest it forever. 



84 SONG TO DEATH. 



VI. 



The storm-clouds hurtling by, 
Conceal the bright. blue sky 
With their dark drapery ; 

And snows are drifting, drifting ; 
So in this mortal clime, 
Thou art the winter time ; 
We hear thy stormy chime. 

Forever shifting, shifting. 



VII. 

Hark, hark, that solemn knell ! 
That mournful passing bell ! 
What sorrow doth it tell ? 

Ah, Death has ope'd his portal ; 
And flying o'er the land. 
Old Time with bony hand 
Shook out the latest sand ; 

Alas, he was but mortal. 



SONG TO DEATH. 85 



VIII. 



Thou marrest Nature's rhyme, 

Dark Janitor of time, 

And makest a solemn mime 

Of Life, so true, so earnest ; 
Men build them castles high, 
And seek to reach the sky 
By climbing patiently ; 

But thou, their plans o'erturnest. 



IX. 

Life is a stage, so says 
The seer of ancient days — 
Where each his own part plays. 

Or good, or bad, uncertain ; 
When first doth throb the heart. 
He 'gins the earthly art. 
And acts his written part ; 

Thou, Death, dost drop the curtain. 



SONG OF DEATH. 



I. 

Life is a passage in 

Eternity, akin 

To Time, where mortals spin 

The web of future being ; 
Awhile they toil, and bear 
Their load of duty there. 
And then they journey where 

They 're charmed from foreseeing. 



SONG OF DEATH. 87 



II. 



Two spirit forms preside. 
To regulate the tide 
Of life ; one doth abide 

Before the first hour portal ; 
I am the spirit power 
That guards the latest hour, 
And give ye for a dower, 

The unknown Life immortal. 



III. 

I hold the golden chain, 

Let down from Heaven's main. 

To hft ye from the plain 

Of earth to joy eternal ; 
I come when sorrows press ; 
In dreams of happiness ; 
Earth fades, and I would bless 

Whh chmes forever vernal. 



88 SONG OF DEATH. 



IV. 

The cold, cold clods are bound, 
Like to a garment round 
Your souls, and to the ground 

They drag ye powerless ; 
Yet ye do love that clay, 
Strive with its slow decay. 
And let the sweet soul stay 

Unnurtured, flowerless. 



V. 

So in your joyous X^me, 

Ye hear a leaden chime 

Sound from the tomb. Then I 'm 

Sent down to ye in kindness. 
The knot of love is^riven, 
Ye read the lesson given, 
Ye see the hand of heaven. 

And waken from your blindness. 



SONG OF DEATH. 89 



VL 



The grave is not all sad, 
Though in dark shadows clad ; 
From thence men see, most glad, 

Eternity's green meadow ; 
Upon Life's path astray. 
The leaves and winds that play, 
Do guide ye on the way 

To this Valley of the Shadow. 



VII. 

A little fold of hands, 
A little drop of sands, 
And the fluttering spirit stands 

Beyond the vale, victorious ; 
Where the sands of life ne'er run. 
And the day is never done ; 
Eternity is won. 

Eternity all glorious. 



90 SONG OF DEATH. 



VIII. 



Ye who within Life's slow 
And long procession go, 
Who, 'mid the sullen flow 

Of winds and tempests, wander, 
Ye name me Death. Ye call 
Me cursed for the pall 
That once must fold o'er all ; 

Birth, they have named me yonder. 



MEETING OF ART AND RELIGION. 



Far in gloom among the darker ages, 

Ere the hidden light of Truth was found, 

When was hushed the voice of saints and sages, 
Stood fair Nuremburg, the world renowned. 

Stood in beauty 'mong the vine-clad mountains, 
The emporium of wealth and pride ; 

Where the rosy waves from crystal fountains 
Flowed as from the urns of even-tide. 

Stood upon the point where light was dawning — 
Light of Love that long had been delayed ; 

As the day-star on the brow of morning 
Sparkles, half in light and half in shade. 



92 THE MEETING OF ART AND RELIGION. 

There the Kaiser had his lordly palace, 
And the poor man had his lowly home ; 

And the gray monk kissed the holy chalice, 
Not for man's salvation, but for Rome. 

There the shapeless marble, from its slumber 
'Woke to being, as the artist wrought ; 

And the poet wove his silken numbers 

From the golden, tangled threads of thought. 

There, with stately mien and lordly greeting. 
Kings and princes met in halls of state ; 

But in Nuremburg was prouder meeting. 
Nobler than of prince or potentate. 

When from Sebald's tower the solemn vesper 
Chanted forth its sweetly mournful strain, 

When with gentle light the flower Hesper 
Bloomed upon the blue and golden plain ; 

When the air grew soft, the sunlight purer, 
Veiling the far hills with rosy mist. 

Met in love the master artist, Diirer, 
With the God-inspired Evangelist. 



THE MEETING OF ART AND RELIGION. 93 

He who wrought with skill to make art peerless — 
Art that should enrich the soul of man — 

And the one who for the truth stood fearless 
'Gainst the thunders of the Vatican. 

Hand in hand and heart with heart, united, 
Stood they at the holy hush of even ; 

Gentle Art and pure Religion plighted 
To each other at the shrine of Heaven. 

And was heard no minster organ peaHng, 

And no priest their union blessed with prayer ; 

But the fountain chanted to them kneeling, 
And the holy God of Love was there. 

God, who seeth in the solitary places 

As within the busy, trodden way. 
In whose presence angels veil their faces. 

Passed before them at the cool of day. 

Eye marked not that Presence calm and holy ; 

Ear heard not the words of peace and love ; 
But the brave good hearts that bowed them lowly. 

Felt the benediction from above. 



94 THE MEETING OF ART AND RELIGION. 

Then the Artist and his truth-proclaiming brother 
Turned on different missions to depart ; 

But each bore the impress of the other ; 
Truth became more fair, more holy, Art. 

And as Diirer at his marble column 

Wrought with earnest love in after time. 

Spirits read him, as from some great volume, 
Truths that made his sculpture more sublime. 

On the canvass, as he lay his spectrum. 

Springs of music round him seemed to well ; 

As Apollo touched his skilful plectrum 
To the rude, yet soothing tortoise-shell. 

Forth went Luther to his toilsome duty ; 

But a gentle spirit led him on ; 
Now he saw the world, all truth and beauty, 

Which before was spiritless and wan". 

Heavenward ever he had turned his vision, 
Stumbling, for he looked too much above ; 

Striving thence to catch some gleams Elysian, 
Deeminoj not the world was full of love. 



THE MEETING OF ART AND RELIGION. 95 

Beauteous Nature, gentle mother, will not flee us, 
Though our cold indifference give her pain ; 

When we faint with soaring, like Antaeus 
Touching earth we gather strength again. 

Art is like the day, whose touch imperious 
Bids the desert teem with flowers bright ; 

Like the night. Religion, calm, mysterious, 
Bidding men look upward for the light. 

So those spirits, born of one high mother. 
Met as day and night at evening meet ; 

Forming, as they mingled with each other. 
Twilight, more than either, calm and sweet. 

And their union 's blessed in every region, 
Every land where beats a human heart ; 

Art still throws its iris o'er Religion, 
Still Religion gives new truth to Art. 



LITTLE NELL. 



" It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he stooped to kiss her on 
the cheek, and gave his tears free vent ; " it is not on earth that 
Heaven's justice ends ; think what it is, compared with the 
world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight ; and 
say if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this 
bed, could call her back to life, which of us would utter it ! " 



We would not bid her waken 

From Death's cold, dreamless sleep ; 
Nor let her spirit brighten 

Those eyes to see them weep ; 



LITTLE NELL. 

No, were one word sufficient 
To break the spell-bound chain, 

That word should not be spoken 
To call her back again. 

Breathe softly — O breathe softly. 

As ye stand around the bier ; 
For earth's best, brightest lovehness. 

Is sleeping calmly here ; 
The beautiful, the brightest. 

The star that most did shine, 
Is dimmed, to light more purely 

The firmament divine. 

Ay, twine ye now the fairest. 

The flowers of many dyes, 
And lay them on the pillow 

Where childish beauty lies ; 
For beautiful she lieth. 

As if she dreamed the while ; 
And pure as sunbeams playing 

With a sleeping infant's smile. 
7 



97 



98 LITTLE NELL 

Old man with sorrow stricken 



Look on her marble brow ; 
She was thy all, thy only — 

See how she sleepeth now ; 
Blest are the tears that follow 

Each other down thy cheek ; 
They are the silent language 

Of a heart too full to speak. 

The bright green grass of summer 

Shall gently o'er her wave ; 
And flowers that smile the sweetest, 

Shall deck her silent grave ; 
And oft that sod shall moisten 

With childhood's bitter tear ; 
For they who once did love her, 

Cannot forget her here. 



FLOWERS. 



A LITTLE child stood mid the flowers, as young 
And innocent as they. He watched the fly, 
With gilded wings, float in the summer sky, 

And dancing on the fragrant turf, he flung 

His little hands on high in childish glee ; 
And laughed and sung, and was as happy in 
His sport as Eden's dwellers could have been ; 

For he had plucked no fruit from evil tree. 

His mother watched him from the bank, and smiled 
To see him smile and leap so happily 
Among the leaves, as he could never be 

More sad than now ; and as he now beguiled 

The hours away — so ever. He would talk 
To each bright flower within his reach, and press 
His cherry Up to theirs in tenderness. 



100 FLOWERS. 

And whisper to them ; and they did not mock 
His pure simplicity ; but always gave 

An answer to his words, which he could read 

And understand. 'T was beautiful, indeed, 
To see him thus, soft stepping lest he gave 
Some flower pain or crushed its stem, as one 

Of them he stood ; as happy, and as free 

From sin. As sunny as the beam which he 
Did sport with when he tried to grasp the sun. 
At length, one morn he stood beside the bank 

Of flowers he loved, but they were gone. Their 
hue 

Was changed. An angel form had left the blue. 
Broad arch of Heaven, and smote them, that they 

sank 
In death ; but took their perfumed souls away. 

And left the withered blackness there to fade ; 

No more look bright and gay. He gently laid 
His whispering lips upon them — they did say 
No word, but hung in silence. Then his heart 

Swelled in his little breast. He left them there 

In tearful grief, and asked his mother where 
The flowers were gone ; who made them to depart. 
When he had loved them so. " God took them 
child ; 



FLOWERS. 101 

They '11 come again," she said ; but spoke no 

more. 
A tear came in her eye, and sadness o'er 
Her heart. She thought He too might take the 

mild, 
Blue flower she loved, and lay it in the tomb. 



STORM SONG. 



Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 
The night is grand and gloomy, no stars are in 

the sky, 
And the giant Storm is passing in might and 

majesty ; 
No pale moonlight beams through the night, but 

the giant Storm is there. 
And his black steed's mane is dripping rain as he 

paws the upper air ; 
And all his train are dripping rain, that follow 

through the air. 



STORM SONG. 103 

Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 

The tall oaks, bending stately, accept the gaunt- 
let cast ; 

The shock is past, and naked they stand before 
the blast ; 

Their helms and greaves of autumn leaves, around 
disjointed lie ; 

And heard are groans and bitter moans, with the 
victor storm's rude cry ; 

And nought but groans and bitter moans are 
heard v/ith the storm's rude cry. 

Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 

I 'ra gazing from my casement into the wild, black 
night, 

By the fitful and uncertain gleam of my chamber 
light ; 

And there I hear wild voices near, as of demons 
in the air ; 

And there I see each naked tree, like waves, roll 
everywhere ; 

But dimly see the forest-tree upsurging every- 
where. 



104 STORM SONG. 

Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 
'Tis like the angry ocean contendmg with the 

storms ; 
I hear the thundering billows — I see their mighty 

forms ; 
With rudest shocks upon the rocks, they dash in 

fierce array ; 
And I hear the toll of fog-bells roll, that warn 

from far away ; 
The mournful knell which the foo^-bells tell of the 

o 

breakers far away. 

Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 
For Life is such a tempest ; as giant-like and 

drear ; 
Of ever-changing passions which strive against us 

here ; 
Of doubts and tears and trembling fears which 

bow the proud heart low ; 
Oft the beacon light is dimmed by night, we see 

not where we go ; 
The guiding lamp, quenched by the damp of 

storms that round us flow. 



STORM SONG. 105 

Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 
Then thou shouldst tell me sweetly of gentle love 

and ruth ; 
And of the magic needle that ever points at truth ; 
Of the heacon light that burns by night with 

never-lessened ray ; 
Fog-bells that toll to the storm-tossed soul their 

warning far away ; 
Of bell-notes clear that whisper near of the 
breakers far away. 
Would thou wert near me, Ella ; 
Would thou wert near. 



GIVE. 



Give him tliat asketh thee. 



If the poor man pass thy door, 
Give him of thy bounteous store ; 
Give him food and give him gold, 
Give him shelter from the cold ; 
Aid him, his lone life to live. 
For 'tis angel-like to give. 



GIVE. 107 

Though world-riches thou hast not, 
Give to him of poorer lot ; 
Think thee of the widow's mite ; 
In the Holy Master's sight, 
It was more, a thousandfold. 
Than the rich man's hoard of gold. 

Give, it is the better part ; 
Give to them, the poor in heart ; 
Give of love in large degree. 
Give of hope and sympathy ; 
Cheer to them that sigh forlorn. 
Light to him whose lamp is gone. 

Give the gray-haired wanderer room ; 
Lead him gently to the tomb ; 
Let him not, in friendless clime. 
Float adown the tide of time ; 
Hear the mother's lonely call. 
She, the dearest one of all. 

And the lost, abandoned one. 
In thy pathway, do not shun ; 



108 



GIVE. 



Of thy kindness she hath need ; 
Bind with balm the bruised reed 
Give, and gifts above all price 
Shall be thine in Paradise, 



ANGEL LOVE. 



Thou starry virtue, fare thee well ; seek heaven, 
And there by Cassiopeia, shine in glory. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 



I COULD not think her spirit fled ; 
I could not make my sweet love dead ; 
Though oft they told me she was gone, 
And 't was but dust I looked upon, 
I could not make her dead. 



1 10 ANGEL LOVE. 

She lay as if in dreamy rest, 
Her hands meek folded on her breast ; 
Her lips which knew no word of guile, 
Half parted with a beaming smile ; 
I knew she was not dead. 

A pale rose gemmed her raven hair, 
As if it loved to blossom there ; 
Those silken locks which, without check, 
Twined with the lilies of her neck ; 
I could not think her dead. 

The birds sang sweetly in their play. 
Beneath the casement where she lay ; 
And then I knew she only dreamed, 
For everything so lifelike seemed, 
I could not make her dead. 

The sun sank golden in the west 
And left his last beam on her breast ; 
And sweetly there it quivering lay, 
And shook her vest like the heart's quick play ; 
I saw she was not dead. 



ANGEL LOVE. Ill 

He tried to fright me with his speech, 
His solemn words, that cunning leach ; 
That the tide of Life had ceased to flow ; 
In vain, I knew it was not so ; 
I knew she was not dead. 

Like two twin flowers upon one stem 
We grew ; and loved and bloomed like them ; 
'T was not in Nature, then, that one 
Should fade, the other still live on ; 
How could my love be dead ? 

They told me of a cold, dark grave. 
And singing leaves that o'er it wave ; 
Of the mottled worm, w^ould be the guest 
Of her I loved the dearest, best ; 
I dared not think her dead. 

But when I pressed her sweet lips twain, 
And felt no kiss pressed back again ; 
And in her eye no tears could see 
When mine were flowing mournfully, 
I knew that she was dead. 



112 ANGEL LOVE. 

My hand stole o'er her marble breast ; 
No gentle throb disturbed its rest ; 
No thought for me lay there divine, 
As the rock heeds not the red sunshine ; 
I knew my love was dead ! 

I saw it all ; the purest soul 
That ever earth held in control, 
Had hushed its sweet, melodious tone ; 
I knew that I was left alone — 
I knew my love was dead. 

Sleep came ; and bathed in its smooth stream, 
Her spirit floated through my dream ; 
The same sweet smile and form were there, 
The same pale rose wreathed in her hair ; 
My dear love was not dead. 

She whispered me of sunny lands 
Where time moved not by dropping sands ; 
Of singing-birds and chanting-streams ; 
Of scenes more fair than pictured dreams. 
To which her spirit dear had fled. 



ANGEL LOVE. 

Morn came — a tear was on my cheek ; 
Of joy, or grief, I could not speak; 
The dead love by my side lay shriven. 
The living love was blessed in heaven ; 
In truth she was not dead. 



113 



A RHYME OF LIFE. 



Ho, watcher on the house-top ! 

Ho, minister of night ! 
From thy enclouded turret 

Can'st tell us of the light ? 
O, heavy is the darkness ; 

In the sky there is no star ; 
Can'st see the wings of morning 

Rise, fluttering afar ? 



A RHYME OF LIFE. 115 

I see bright winged angels 

Far in the Orient ; 
They bear a golden curtain, 

Across the firmament ; 
A blue and golden curtain 

Of richest tapestry ; 
And the world grows bright beneath it — 

Morn cometh from the sea. 

I see four other angels 

Rise slowly after them ; 
They bear a sable curtain 

Enwrought with many a gem 
Of burning gold and silver, 

Of azure and of white ; 
And among them burneth Hesper — 

Morn cometh and the night. 

Ho ! Propliet, from thy tower, 

How goes the tide of Life ? 
The battle, is it ended ? 

Has 't ceased the olden strife ? 



116 A RHYME OF LIFE. 

Thick mists are in the valley, 
They cloud my narrow sight ; 

Can'st tell us of the Morning ? 
The breaking up of Night ? 

The battle rages fiercely — 
More fiercely it shall rage ; 

The world is clouded darkly — 
There comes a darker age ; 

I see four angels rising ; 
A sable shroud they bear ; 

Which, rolling, gathers darkness; 
Night Cometh from his lair. 

But I see a warrior struggling 

With bright mail on his breast ; 
His lance is long and heavy, 

And he bows each sable crest ; 
And in the hands of angels, 

White flags of peace are borne ; 
I see the glad Aurora — 

Nidit Cometh — and the Morn. 



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